by Joan Aiken
It was strange to lie in my narrow cot and listen to the sounds of the town outside: I was amazed at the night-long clatter of the coaches over the cobbles, the cries of chairmen, the hourly call of the watch; not till nearly dawn did I fall asleep, having much on my mind, and then I was woken by the dustmen, with their bells and chant of dust-ho!, the porterhouse boys and milkmen, each with different cries; so I came down to breakfast scarcely more rested than I had gone up.
Breakfast consisted of a liquid which they called coffee, but which tasted to me like brown water; thin slices of bitter bread, toasted, with a little butter – and countless more insults and jeers from the other boys, to which I did my best to turn a deaf ear, having no other recourse. I longed to set about them and knock them all flying.
One boy, more good-natured than the rest, who told me his name was Lord Fred Beauchamp, informed me that the teasing would die down in a month or so.
‘They always give it thick to a new bod for his first half, you see! That’s the rule. But if you take care not to do any of the things that are fango, then it’ll die down quicker.’
‘What is fango?’ said I.
‘Why, fango is – is anything that ain’t done – like keeping your jacket buttoned, you know, or walking with your hands in your pockets, or using the front stairs; you must always use the back ones, unless you are with the Beak. And don’t try to go near the fire – only praetors may go there.’
‘Who are the praetors?’
‘Why, the monitors – the big ones – you’ll soon learn their names. You must always do what they bid you. And you must learn the lingo of the school.’
‘Why, what is that?’
He told me that the boys had their own words for many things, such as dobbo for book, milky for master, prog for food, prad for horse, mallicko for bed, and going up Jenkins for going to the toilet stool. New boys were supposed to learn these words and have them perfect by the end of a week. I said I thought this stupid; why should I take pains to learn such childish rubbish when there were perfectly good English words for the things? But Beauchamp told me that unless I did so I should be sent to Coventry.
‘Sent to Coventry? What is that?’
‘Why, no one will speak to you!’
‘That would not worry me in the slightest degree, since they all talk like six-year-olds. In fact I should prefer it.’
The masters’ rules were even more trivial and irritating than the boys’ rules. We might not leave the building unescorted; we were forbidden to venture forth into the streets of Bath unless one of the masters accompanied us. We might not ride our horses, except two by two, at a sedate trot, once a day, for half a mile out into the country and back. We might not smoke – not that I wished to – or keep dogs, or talk, save at stated times, or sing in our bedrooms, or play musical instruments, or wear coloured cravats, or read novels except after eight o’clock in the evening, or attend cockfights, or make purchases from the shops in Bath, save on a Saturday, when there was a half-holiday, and then again one of the masters had to accompany us and we might not go off alone. Never have I encountered so many senseless rules! It seemed most of them had been invented to forbid acts that I had never thought of committing.
Also there were many more things that were not done. Fred Beauchamp advised me about these too.
‘It ain’t done to mention your sister, St Winnow. So, if you have one, keep her dark!’
‘I have not got one, but what a piece of imbecility is this?’ I said, thinking of Nieves. ‘If I had one, why should not I mention her?’
‘Oh, it ain’t fango to talk about girls. Girls are totty-headed things!’
When it came to the lessons, I was surprised to find that I was tolerably well up with the rest of the boys, and even ahead in some respects. Father Tomas had taught me well, it appeared; I had something to thank him for. Only, the boys all laughed at me, because I pronounced the Latin and Greek words in a different way from theirs; they were highly entertained by my false quantities, as they called them.
I said, what did it signify how the words were spoken, so they were the right words? And who knew, anyway, how the ancient Greeks or Romans had spoken them? But Mr Alleyn, who taught these languages, told me I must learn the English way to pronounce them, or I would never be allowed into Oxford. Remembering that my father had been expelled from that place, I was not at all certain that I wished to go there. Certainly I did not wish to go if it was anything like the Pulteney Academy for the Sons of Gentlemen!
Oh, how can I express the tedium of that month! I felt I had sooner be in jail at Oviedo – I had sooner be aboard the Guipuzcoa with the gale blowing up – I had far, far sooner be back at Villaverde, ducking the blows of Father Tomas and riding my bad-tempered mule over the stony prado.
Although the boys’ teasing did presently abate somewhat I could not make friends with them.
They were too childish! Their whole lives seemed concerned with petty friendships, petty quarrels: linko, they called these, and bello: ‘Say, have you heard, Townshend is linko with Bellingham, now, and he’s gone bello with Desborough; they aren’t speaking since Des borrowed his Latin crib and spilt ink on it!’ ‘Hey! Fotheringay is linko with De Vere – Fothers had a box of prog from home and the two of them ate it all up together!’
Their talk was all of this idiotic kind, until I could have died with boredom.
Even more ridiculous was the way they went on about some of the masters. These were decent enough men, Mr Crackenshaw, Mr Dingley, and Mr Wells, though I do not think any of them would have been much use aboard the Guipuzcoa – but to hear the boys talk about them you would think they were descended from Phoebus Apollo, the God of the Sun! They had another word, socco, for their feelings about the masters.
‘Did you see how Mr Dingley smiled at me when I was giving my recitation? I am quite socco about him! I shall die if I don’t sit next to him at dinner.’
So the long dull days wore on, until the boys began to talk of how they would go home for Christmas.
And what shall I do? thought I. Return to Asshe, to hear tales of my father from Jem, and of the Carisbroke family from Mr Burden, and watch my grandfather playing with his shoe-buckles?
One Friday morning I had risen early, before the rest of the boys, and stood idly in the big dining-room, looking at the black trees and blackened houses in Queen Square, where a thin snow was commencing to fall. I watched the post-man in his royal livery of scarlet and gold, hurrying from house to house, announcing his arrival with his loud double-knock. At last he approached the Pulteney Academy, and, as he did so, I suddenly had a strong feeling – I knew – that he carried a letter for me.
Rap-tap! went the knocker, and, as the manservant was still upstairs, taking hot water to all the boys, I quietly went into the front hall and collected the letters myself, though I knew that it was considered disgracefully fango to do such a thing.
Sure enough, not one letter for me, but two! – both sent on from Asshe – the first I had received since I had been at the school.
Laying the other letters on a small table, I ran quietly up the front stairs – another very fango proceeding but it meant that I was less likely to encounter anybody – and managed to get to my room unobserved.
There I read my letters.
The first was from Sam, in a round, sprawling handwriting that seemed exactly like him.
‘My dear old Mess-Mate! Forgive your Pal for not having Writ before, I am a proper wretch but have been so busy with legal Doings as you can’t imagine. I shall be grateful For Ever for your kindness in sending the money. When I am back in Spain, shall be able to repay Same & will lose no Time in doing so for Senor Colomas promised me a good wage. I set Sail for Spain tomorrow & tho Grieved not to see you agen, hope that, now you have found your Great Folk in England, Will not forget them in Spain & loving Freinds also, of whom your fellow-singer Sam is the foremost.
‘Hearken, Felix, you cannot guess the marvellous Good Fortun
e your money brought me. Firstly I was able to pay my Debt to my uncle, so now I can visit England when I wish, without fear of Jail. And when I went to repay my uncle, what do you think I discovered? Why, he had reared up my little lad, my little Matt, that I thought was dead, and I have a son, a proper handsome little fellow of four years, the spit image of my Lily that’s dead and gone! And he has learned to call me Farder, and the Magistrate telled Uncle Ebenezer ’tis my right to take him back to Spain with me – where I know Juana will Spoil him to death for she loves all children. Also, luckily, Uncle Ebenezer is in trouble with Customs over Run goods, so has no time to spare.
‘Now, Felix, I am the happiest man in Cornwall this day, and if it had not been for you, I’d ne’er have come back to England, never known about this Treasure I found waiting for me.
‘I am as glad as can be about your Great Kinsfolk, and ‘twon’t make a pin of difference as to how I feel about ye, for when two mates have been in danger such as we have seen together, they are knit for life, be they noble or Humble.
So no more now from your attached Freind,
Sam.’
Well, was not that a joyful letter to receive, and enough to warm the heart on a snowy morning! I was sad not to see Sam, of course, but rejoiced to my roots that matters had turned out so well for him.
What a strange thing, I thought, that he had a son all the time and never knew it. And I thought what a loving father Sam would make, how he would enjoy teaching young Matt all the things he knew himself.
I was glad he could take the boy back to Llanes, where Juana and little Conchita would be sure to welcome him and play with him.
Boys ought to be with their fathers, I thought.
I said a prayer of thanks in my heart to God for arranging Sam’s fortune so well, and another one, asking for a safe journey for him and little Matt.
Then I opened my other letter which, I now observed, came from Spain.
It was from my grandfather.
‘My dear Grandson: I and your grandmother and your aunts have been rejoiced to hear, by a letter from the good Senor Burden, that you are safely arrived at the house of your English grandfather the Duque, and that you are now in school.
‘Senor Burden will have told you of the wickedness of your great-aunt Isadora, and of her death. What can I say? I bitterly regret the injustice done to you during her life. Now I understand better why you left us, and the bad feeling that lay between you, that led to so much trouble for you and so many punishments, some of them, I fear, undeserved. But that is past now, and your great-aunt is dead, and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive us. We miss you greatly – the house seems very quiet without you.
‘We heard of your adventures on your journey from the good priest at Santillana, and it rejoices me that you endured perils and difficulties with the spirit of a Cabezada – and of a Carisbroke! Senor Burden has written me the history of your English family.
‘We shall be hoping, your grandmother and I, to hear the last part of your journey’s adventures, and how you finally reached your grandfather’s house.
‘Pray, my dear grandson, write us a letter as soon as possible.
‘And perhaps – perhaps – some day you will find it in your heart to come back.
I send you my most esteemed greetings,
Your Grandfather.’
After I had read this letter I sat holding the paper for a long time. I saw in my mind’s eye the great white slopes of the sierra, as viewed from my window; I saw the cobbled stable-yard, the grey-and-damask saloon, the chapel with its red light, the little stone stair where Bernardina had died. I saw Bob’s little room – I could never think of him as Father, he would always remain Bob to me. How far away he seemed from me now, how close he had seemed – even after he had died – at Villaverde.
Before I had noticed it, my mind was made up. I looked about the little room. There was not much I wanted to take. I had some gold sovereigns – enough to buy a warm jacket and a set of pipes. The rest of my belongings I packed into the box, and attached a note to it, directing that it be sent back to Asshe, with my horse.
I could write to Mr Burden and Mr ffanshawe later, explaining., I did not think they would be too surprised. Some day I would come back – but not just yet.
I ran down the stairs at top speed, even faster than I had run up. In the hall I encountered Fred Beauchamp, who said,
‘Hey, old feller, where are you off to? It’s just on breakfast time!’
‘I have an errand in the town.’
‘In the town? Are you queer in your attic? Old Alleyn will be in a rare tweak when he finds out!’
‘I don’t care!’ said I, and slipped out of the front door. Running along the snowy streets to the market, I thought, I can travel back with Ned as far as Falmouth. I can work my passage on some ship to Santander or Bilbao – I know enough to do that now. Or, if they are full-handed, I will pay my fare. I can reclaim Assistenta from the convent, and the bad-tempered mule from the monastery; I can visit Sam and Juana and little Matt and Conchita and Senor Colomas in Llanes. Happy thought! I can spend a little time with Nieves and her family in San Antonio. Things will be better between me and Grandfather – now I shall be able to talk to him and tell him my adventures. And – if providence is kind – which perhaps is more than I deserve – but I have been very lucky up to now – perhaps when I get back to Villaverde, old Gato will still be alive, and when I go down to the stable-yard he will be waiting there, and will come to rub his head against my leg …
* Queen Square built 1727–35.
About the Author
Joan Aiken was born in Sussex in 1924. She wrote over a hundred books for young readers and adults and is recognized as one of the classic authors of the twentieth century. Amanda Craig, writing in The Times, said, ‘She was a consummate storyteller, one that each generation discovers anew.’ Her best-known books are those in the James III saga, of which The Wolves of Willoughby Chase was the first title, published in 1962 and awarded the Lewis Carroll prize. Both that and Black Hearts in Battersea have been filmed. Her books are internationally acclaimed and she received the Edgar Allan Poe Award in the United States as well as the Guardian Award for Fiction in this country for The Whispering Mountain.
Joan Aiken was decorated with an MBE for her services to children’s books. She died in 2004.
Also by Joan Aiken
Other titles in The Felix Trilogy:
Bridle the Wind
The Teeth of the Gale
The Wolves Chronicles:
The Wolves of Willoughby Chase
Black Hearts in Battersea
Night Birds On Nantucket
The Stolen Lake
Limbo Lodge
The Cuckoo Tree
Dido and Pa
Is
Cold Shoulder Road
Midwinter Nightingale
The Witch of Clatteringshaws
Lady Catherine’s Necklace
For further details on these and other
Joan Aiken books, see: www.joanaiken.com
GO SADDLE THE SEA
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 446 43069 9
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Red Fox edition first published 1997
This ebook edition published 2013
Copyright © The Estate of Joan Aiken, 1977
Cover artwork copyright © David Frankland, 2013
First Published in Great Britain by Jonathan Cape, 1978
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